


spiralling

by isayyoucrazy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton & Thomas Jefferson Friendship, Alexander Hamilton needs a hug, And love, Gen, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, References to Depression, Self-Harm, and help, and sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isayyoucrazy/pseuds/isayyoucrazy
Summary: — it’s probably bad that alex doesn’t even know when the thoughts start creeping in.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. alexander

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for self harm!! referenced depression, too. please stay safe! your mental health comes first <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oKay so my mental health went 📉📉📉 this week and i wrote this in like,, an hour on my phone. writing my thought spirals and projecting them onto characters is very therapeutic lmao

It’s probably bad that Alex doesn’t even know when the thoughts start creeping in. In his defence, it’s not his usual “I woke up and feel incapable of doing anything today” — it’s a gradual thing, which he doesn’t experience often.

The week starts off fine. Monday brings a conference where he gets to verbally destroy Lee’s opinions and shoot questions at Seabury so fast that the man can’t even get a word in edgewise. Tuesday, he wakes up to fifty-one emails of things he has to complete; it doesn’t take him long, but it wears him out because he has to consult with fucking Jefferson on some of it (damn Washington, always trying to ‘help them get along’). Wednesday is a grey day — even coffee with shots of espresso doesn’t help shake the fog from his brain, and he catches himself yawning. Thursday is normal, for the most part, but the grey creeps over him a little more and he finds he doesn’t have the strength to push it away.

Friday is when things start going downhill.

It’s not _completely_ unexpected. He’s been very stressed the past month because he was assigned a case alongside Jefferson, who never fails to make Alex’s day worse. Yelling at Jefferson about his shit opinions and even shittier taste ideas usually makes him feel better, but today he really has no energy.

It must really be concerning, because Jefferson peers at him over a folder and says, “Not that I’m not digging the trash squirrel look, but how many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

“You care about my well-being,” Alex mock-gasps. “Thomas-asshole-Jefferson, asking about my health!”

“Shut it,” Jefferson snaps. “I would prefer to not lose this case and, as much as I hate to admit it, it requires both of us. I couldn’t care less about how much you’re sleeping… or aren’t sleeping, as the case may be.” He raises his eyebrows at Alex.

“I got enough,” Alex says shortly, and turns his attention back to the papers in front of him.

They work in silence for the rest of the afternoon. Alex is silently seething, all his muscles clenching as he attempts to not throw a giant tantrum in front of his sworn enemy. How dare Jefferson ask about his well-being? They have _never_ pretended to get along, nor to care about one another. Their dynamic is rehearsed: insults, taunts, the occasional physical assault. There is nothing about caring in their unwritten rule book, and Alex hates that Jefferson threw off their whole routine by asking whether he’d gotten enough sleep — even if he hadn’t asked exactly that, and even if he’d insulted Alex, and even if he’d specifically said he didn’t care. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and all Jefferson’s blustering hadn’t erased the fact that he’d _asked_ in the first place.

Alex doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.

He keeps working, adrenaline and rage and coffee and lack of a sleep schedule all contributing to his nonstop-ness. It’s dark when he looks up and realises that his office is empty. Jefferson is gone.

That makes him mad, too, because how fucking _dare_ he just leave? They were working together on this damn case — what if Alex had needed to bounce an idea off him? He’s never needed Jefferson in the four years they’ve been working at the same firm, but the possibility that he could’ve required help and Jefferson isn’t there to help makes his blood boil.

Since he’s alone in the building — Washington, the only one whose office hours rival Alex’s, is probably still in his office, but that’s across the walkway and definitely out of range — he gives in and lets out a loud, high-pitched scream full of anger and loathing and something else that he doesn’t want to think about right now. He stomps his feet under his desk, and growls under his breath, and then leans forward to bang his head against his desk.

The pain is a nice change. It’s the only thing that’s gotten through the haze of emptiness and dull anger that has been preying on him the past few days. He does it again, pulls his head up and thumps it back down. He repeats this several times and welcomes the dull thud that the motion makes. He’s slightly aware that he’s crying now; he doesn’t know why, but he just lets the tears come as he continues to bang his head against the hard surface of his desk.

Eventually the tears dry and Alex sits up, a little woozy. He touches his forehead and grimaces. There will probably be a bump there in the morning, but it’s okay, it’s Friday. He should be able to cover it with some concealer by Monday.

That makes him frown. He kind of doesn’t _want_ to cover it. He wants a visible reminder of this. He’s always been like this. He needs tangible evidence of everything that happens to him — printed photos of his friends so he knows he has friends, clothes from exes, books and framed diplomas from school. This is no different.

Glancing around his office, Alex’s eyes catch on the pen cup sitting on the corner of his desk. There are a pair of scissors, handle up, in it. Taunting him. He closes his eyes for a minute and takes a deep breath, trying to force that part of him down. He’s been clean for almost a year, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t.

_What would John say? What would Eliza say?_

_It doesn’t matter_ , his brain hisses at him. _They left you because you were too much work, too much effort. You deserve_ this _, not praise for staying clean. Do it._ Do it.

It’s too much. His mind has always whirled at a million miles per second, far too fast for most people to keep up, and just a little too fast for him. He _needs_ this.

Alex grabs the scissors.

It’s a familiar dance. He rolls up his right sleeve and pulls the scissor blades apart with a satisfying _snick,_ and drags the tip across the scarred expanse of his forearm.

It’s peaceful. It’s home. It’s beautiful.

He repeats the process, pulls the steel across his flesh and watches with morbid yet blank fascination as beads of red well up on his skin. He stops only when his mind is at rest and there are eleven stripes on his arm.

Then the panic sets in. _Shit, shit, shit, what had he just done?_ He’d almost been clean for a year, that would’ve been a huge milestone. His friends would have been proud of him. Now all they’re going to be is disappointed.

He fumbles for the box of tissues on his desk and realises he’d run out. Fuck, he’s going to have to go out to the supply closet. What if a janitor catches him? What if Washington sees him moving around in the building and comes to tell him to go home? It’s either that or ruin his shirt by rolling the sleeve down.

He decided to go get the fucking tissues.

He makes it to the supply closet, pulls out a new box of tissues — fucking lavender scented, what the fuck? — and is on his way back to his office when he rounds a corner and runs straight into a wall.

“Excuse me,” a voice says. _Not a wall._ Shit. “Wait, Hamilton?” Jefferson peers down at him and arches an eyebrow. “You do realise what time it is?” he asks, before his eyes move away from Alex’s face and take in the scene.

Alex, with his right shirt sleeve rolled above his elbow. Alex, with angry, red lacerations on his right forearm, some of which are bleeding sluggishly. Alex, with a box of tissues stuck under his left arm.

“Shove off,” Alex snaps, and power walks away. A hand grabs his arm — his _right_ arm, goddammit — and he hisses in pain as the fingers dig into his wounds.

“Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

That causes Alex to stop. He turns around, right arm defensively tucked behind his back, and says, “Pardon? Did _Thomas Jefferson_ just apologise to me?”

That earns him an eye roll. “Don’t be a dick,” Jefferson says. “I usually feel like hurting you, but it seems you got there first tonight.” He winces as Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “That… wasn’t how I meant it to come out.”

“What are you doing here, Thomas?” Alex asks pointedly. “Spying on me?”

“You wish. No, I came back because I forgot to lock my office and I don’t trust you to not go snooping.”

“You really think I care that much about your drawer of sex toys?”

“That’s always locked! I mean...”

Alex blinks several times. “I did _not_ need to know that,” he sighs. “I’m leaving now.” He spins and starts heading back to his office.

“No, wait!” Jefferson’s legs are annoyingly long, and he keeps stride with Alex. “Are you okay? I mean, is there anything I can do? To help?”

They make it back to Alex’s office, and Alex stops in the doorway and stares up at Jefferson. “No,” he says flatly, and then steps back and slams the door in Jefferson’s face. He hears the lock click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you ever feel like this, pls reach out!! call or text a hotline <3 if you are unable to contact a hotline, dm me at my instagram @beyour.own.disaster
> 
> you are loved more than you know and so very needed in this world :) even if it doesn’t seem like it right now, it will get better, i promise. ily 💗


	2. thomas

Thomas stares at the closed door and the name card that says _Alexander Hamilton_ for a minute before sighing and sitting down right outside. “I’m not leaving,” he calls. The door is thick, but he knows it’s not thick enough for Hamilton to not be able to hear him. “I’m staying right here. And when you come out, I’m driving you home.”

“No, you’re fucking not,” Hamilton spits. “What about my car?”

“It’s a piece of junk,” Thomas says dismissively. No reply. He sits there in silence for a minute before he starts talking. “I met James Madison in seventh grade. He was tiny. He got picked on by all the other boys in our grade. I was the only one who stuck up for him.”

A scraping noise from inside the office. “Why are you telling me this?” Hamilton asks warily.

“I’m making conversation. James hated talking so when I befriended him, I learned to just talk and talk and talk. I told him everything, all my thoughts and plans. It discouraged me at first, to talk and never get a response, but when we started texting, I learned that he actually listened. To _everything_ I ever said. He paid attention. He knew my birthday, my parents’ names, my siblings’ favourite colours.” He paused. “He knew things about me that I’ve never told anyone else. Like my social anxiety. Like my eating disorder. Like my depression. Like me being gay. And then we grew up and we stayed best friends. He stayed tiny and shy and quiet, but the _information_ he had on everyone was enough to intimidate everyone.” He laughs bitterly. “He used it against me, you know? He outed me to my entire high school in Virginia. Not a good place to be Black, and _definitely_ not a good place to be Black _and_ gay. He told everyone about my ‘problems.’ Got me sent to a psych ward. When I got back, he’d left the school.”

“I’m sorry.” Hamilton’s voice is quiet. “I knew you didn’t get along with him from the minute he joined the firm, but I… I never knew.”

“I never told anyone,” Thomas shrugs.

“Why are you telling me, then?” The words sound like an attack, but Hamilton’s tone is genuinely curious.

“I… I didn’t want you to think that I’d… tell anyone about this. Because I’ve been there and… even though you’re my self-proclaimed enemy, I’d never do that to you.”

A long pause, and then, “Well, thank you.”

Then the door is opening, and Thomas almost falls backwards into Hamilton’s office. Hamilton gives him a hand and hauls him to his feet.

“Can I…” Thomas gestures at his coworker’s arm, and Hamilton purses his lips and nods reluctantly. Thomas leads Hamilton to the couch and gathers some antibacterial wipes and a cup of water from the little dispenser right outside.

He dips tissues into the water and wipes away the blood. It’s mostly dried now, but after a bit of gentle scrubbing, it comes off. He drops the pink tissues into the wastebasket. Then he drags the antibacterial wipes over Alex’s wounds. The man winces and visibly bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Why are you apologising?” Alex’s head shoots up and he stares at Thomas with a bewildered look. “None of this is your fault.” He ignores the fact that he had a meltdown over Thomas — it was mostly his traitorous brain, anyway.

Thomas shrugs and examines his hands. “I don’t know.” Then he exhales and reveals, “I used to cut, too. I just… I feel like I should have seen the signs.”

“No.” Alex is shaking his head vehemently. “No, Thomas, no. I’m very good at hiding this, okay? It took John and Eliza months of literally _sleeping_ with me to even notice.” Thomas makes a face, which Alex ignores. “I think of this as a weakness, I guess — and I don’t like showing weakness. It’s not your fault for not noticing something I do my best to hide.”

“I didn’t need to know about Laurens and Schuyler number two,” Thomas grimaces. “Knowing you’re good at hiding this doesn’t really make me feel any better, but thanks for trying to reassure me.” He pauses. “Alexander… I know we’re not close buddies or anything, but… I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here for you, okay? I’ve been there, and I don’t want to see you hurt yourself like that, so… yeah. You have my number, right?”

“Yeah. Remember the Spamming War?”

“I managed to block that from my memory, but thanks for bringing it back up,” Thomas quips, and they share a laugh.

They sit in silence for a bit. “Thank you, Thomas,” Alex says. “For everything. I… It means a lot. So yeah.”

The ridiculousness of the situation dawns on them, and they burst out laughing. If someone had told them just that morning that they’d be connecting over psychological issues, they would have denied the very idea that their self-proclaimed enemy could have psychological issues.

Just then, Washington pokes his head into Alex’s office. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees Alex and Thomas sitting together, laughing and _not_ murdering one another. “Er… hello. It’s almost midnight, just wanted to let you know. You should head out and get some sleep.”

“Alex never sleeps.” Thomas rolls his eyes fondly.

“I do!” Alex protests. “I just happen to not require fourteen hours of _beauty sleep_.”

To say that Washington is confused by his employees' interactions would be a major understatement, but he shrugs it off and says, “Go home, Alexander. You too, Thomas. Good night and see you both on Monday.” With that, he leaves, and they can hear the front door close behind him as he exits the building.

“Come on, Hamilton,” Thomas says. “I’m still driving you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if the conclusion makes sense,, but whatever. also i don’t actually headcanon madison EVER hurting jefferson, i just didn’t want to bring in another character just to be a dick to thomas


End file.
